Best Laszlo Kecsedi Poems

Why did this day have to end?
I didn’t even ask for an extension
Miracles died thirty years ago
Now I just watch the universe roll by
I know the lights always fade
I welcomed the dark
For the first time
It felt like a blanket
Covering everything
Everything…my world is small
Just bury me for a while
I know you are not here to stay
But still
Just keep me here in the dark
I dread the morning
Trying to make a what’s-the-difference
Hope is the last to die
Whose turn is it tonight?

The passionate young man on his way to his love
Walked by a lake carrying a snow-white dove
Inside his shirt he held it close to his heart
When he heard a song - an enchanting work of art
The melody was captivating, full of sorrow -
The cries of a soul for whom there’s no tomorrow
An unknown fear gripped the young man’s heart
Dark crevasses of life to him were an unknown part
So full of life and hope, inevitability he never had to face
The source of the irresistible sound he wished to trace
He looked behind the dense brushes hiding the water
On seeing a wondrous swan his agitated mind grew calmer
He stood there mesmerized, the scene not comprehending
And a chill he felt from the bottom of his spine ascending
Why does something as beautiful as this must end?
Against a dark premonition himself he could not defend
The song told him everything that was, and ever will be
As he stood there listening, in his mind’s eye he could see
The birth of dreams and hopes, the path and the finish,
The igniting spark, the flame and the death of every wish
The swan sang his last and was swallowed by the lake
Slowly the young man from his vision did wake
He felt the dove in his shirt frantically flutter
He gently held it high and let it go, not a word did he utter
Innocence cannot build his nest in a bosom laden
And burdened with knowledge so dark and craven
The young man continued his journey to meet his darling
A long shadow followed him in his footsteps crawling
Across the lake on yonder side, hidden by the morning fog
An old man, frail and haggard, sat quietly on a bone-white log
He heard the swan too, and watched it get swallowed by the deep
But at this lonely funeral his half closed eyes did not weep
He felt it in his bones, and knew the end was near
So the swan song filled his feeble mind with fear
Since he was a young man he searched for the answer
The question being: What comes when to death we do surrender?
He looked to the sky but in vain, he begged but to no avail
The heavens did not open; his body and spirit were broken
When with the last notes of the swan song resounding
Asking for a sign, he saw a dove above the clouds climbing
On his crooked legs he stood as straight as he could
Raising his hands he pleaded, “Take me, if you would”
The solemn swan song became a victorious celebration,
A joyous symphony of the never ending glory of creation
The frail old body fell back onto the bone-white log
Never again to emerge from that otherworldly fog
But a peaceful smile on the old man’s face remained
Having his long-lost innocence of youth finally regained

Unassuming simplicity
Child of the wild
A bit of color to catch the eyes
It’s too much to leave her behind
Sentimental blindness
Can only give bad guidance
Leave her; why break her?
Look only, but do not touch
You’ll soil your hands
Can never be friends
To embrace nature is not in your nature
Think you’ll just put her on your table?
You’ll be unable
A narrow vase by your hands made
Freedom cannot recreate
Take her home, and she’ll wither
But your guilt won’t die with her

As naturally and effortlessly as birds fly
Unannounced and quietly an Idea came by
Faster than the weightless wind it flew
Where it came from no one asked, no one knew
Longing for a cloak in which to be wrapped
It knocked on many doors asking to be dressed
It wished to be given a shape and form for all to see
It wanted an existence, and in this world a chance to be
The farmer was farming, the worker busy working
The judge was judging, the thief in the shadows lurking
The preacher was of the invisible kingdom preaching
The poet alone with his heart and soul for the Idea reaching
It seized him and became the fire in his veins
The beating in his heart, the throbbing in his brain
It became the movement of his arms and legs
He asked for the right words like a beggar for food begs
The Idea through the flesh was about to be born
The invisible by the visible longed to be worn
Like newlyweds neither knew too well the other
They had to unite: each’d be both father and mother
Now the idea took control and led the poet’s pen
Then It was overpowered by the brutish man
Now he’d try to bend It, to suit his words, to shape It
Then It bent him so that into each other they’d fit
He wished to be a channel for the Idea he sensed
It had a burning desire, a purpose to be expressed
When possessing parts of both the work was done
An idea of the Idea was born - a battle both lost and won

A well of crystal clear water, untainted potentiality
Dug deep in the ground by a house of motionless morality
Refined, dainty dwellers of the house were abounding
But howling winds of doubt on the door came a pounding
The winds brought dark clouds of fear and foreboding
Faith, hope, truthfulness and fidelity have begun eroding
Whence the warlike, wailing winds came there is no telling
But once the whispers began, of them there was no quelling
The master of the house was enticed and by fear persuaded
His judgment faded and the cosmic for the telluric he traded
Promised he was nothing, perhaps mere elemental existence
But with blind persistence he thirsted for his own subsistence
“Drown your past, smother your pride, and stifle your dignity,
The price for your precious prize will be a mark of infamy”
One by one the master sacrificed and slaughtered his brood
Lifeless, they were all thrown in the well after being subdued
The water once crystal clear turned murky, opaque and dim
Existence to the master was granted, but life became grim
He stands by the well, peering into the bottomless, abysmal pit
Forever thinking to undo this unhallowed story he`d writ

My own life is outside my jurisdiction
Freedom is in need of a new definition
Why wake and dress and eat and sleep?
Myself in this prison why do I keep?
All movement determined by outside forces
No need to think, feel or make my own choices
Consider the waves of the sea in constant motion:
For their existence is there a higher notion?
Compelled to race to their destined shore
When their goal is reached they are no more
Is that how and why we live this life?
Is there no other reason for this suicidal strife?

He sought the sacred fire for so long
One day it manifested through a song
The flame was small and gentle, as he ran with it
The dark, deserted streets were beautifully lit
He took it home, spoke not a word
Then came the silent whisper, “Ye must be undeterred”
He took an old wooden clock, broke the hands of time
Fed them to the fire as church bells did chime
The flames grew stronger, sustenance they craved
Whatever he had he gave, till he was slowly enslaved
He loved the fire, and it consumed all but his desire
He was willingly caught in this miraculous mire
His books and clothes, his possessions were next
They fed the flames as the world stood perplexed
He knew no father, mother nor needed no friend
He lived for the fire and longed for the end
“You must be weightless if you wish to ascend”
So he burned his dreams and sorrows to transcend
He became empty and hollow inside, a shell of a man,
He felt lighter and lighter and his flight he began
His past and his future still lived in his blood
Quickly he slit his wrists and gave them all up
There he was, drained and hollow, sitting by the fire
With nothing left to do but to expire
He embraced the flames; the heat propelled him higher,
And together they danced forever in a ball of beautiful fire.
So if you meet a salamander on a cold, dark night
Know it`ll teach you about the fire, if you treat it right

Ideas to change my mind
Attempts to chain my mind
There’s a wild horse inside
Roaming the shrinking prairie
Whose voice does it heed?
What advice does it need?
To tame it is to break it
To put it to good use is
To put it in a yoke
Shake it off, throw it down
Forget what you’ve learned
This is how freedom will be earned

Seasons in Love – Winter
Canned and conserved memories are the only sustenance
Left to feed on with a blank stare and a stern countenance
Branches intertwined in life shall remain so in death
Suppleness, vitality gone, life`s reduced to taking breath
The oxygen now feeds the flames of merciful destruction
Dry branches impatiently long for the final deconstruction
But stubborn roots grow as deep as the tree is high
Detachment, like growth, will happen gradually, by and by
Living skeletons testify to loss and the inevitable end
They stand sinister but graceful and a final message they send:
Life and love are endowed with meaning by virtue of death
Hold dear and treasure these gifts considering the final breath